


The Only One Who Knows

by Quilly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, a friendship to transcend Scratches, act your respective ages you two, dirk needs some comfort after a hard breakup, it's funny because guess what happens after he goes to texas, nanna has a freaky intuitive sense of when it's Cookie Time, wait that's not funny at all, what's it called when love isn't so much unrequited as just not gonna happen, wherein dirk and jane have been friends since dirk was yea high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dirk Strider. Everyone calls you Bro.</p><p>Well, almost everyone.</p><p>Or: Dirk goes home.</p><p>(For Astraliminal)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only One Who Knows

**Author's Note:**

> A thing I wrote a while ago for a friend and now feel like posting over here, to inject some life into that Bro/Nanna tag. Never enough Bro/Nanna. Enjoy!

Your name is Dirk Strider. Everyone calls you Bro.

Well, almost everyone.

Her name is Jane Crocker and she’s been Nanna to the neighborhood kids since you were one of ‘em. She was the one you went to with your scrapes and your good grades, and she always had cookies waiting on you.

Then you went to college and puttered around in Cali for a while, and now you’re back on her doorstep, your chest full of cracks and your head buzzing.

She’s a little more stooped than when you last saw her, but she hugs you the same way since you got too tall—around your neck, making you hunch, because I am an old lady and you’re gonna have to accommodate so I can squeeze you properly, Dirk. Yes, ma’am.

(She’s still just as pretty as ever, what you’d call a silver fox since her hair went grey. She laughs every time you tell her this.)

"Come on in, kiddo, it’s been a while," she says. “Wipe your feet."

As if you’d be dumb enough to track mud on Jane’s floors. For one, she’d insist on cleaning them herself and make you feel guilty for straining her back. For another, you’re pretty sure she does that on purpose. So you forestall an argument and wipe your feet thoroughly. Nothing but road dust.

She still keeps a warm plate of cookies waiting. You’d like to know what dark magics she employs to know when to bake cookies so they’ll be fresh right when you need them. If you had intuition like that…well…you wouldn’t be here right now, you guess.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods, Strider?" she asks, pouring you a glass of milk. It’s nice, being taken care of. You shove a whole cookie in your mouth, chew for a bit, then grin at her. She swats you with a towel. “Besides to show me how your manners haven’t improved?"

"Just came back from California," you say, rooting for a bit of chocolate in your molars. “Thought I’d drop by."

She looks at you evenly behind her spectacles. “That the only reason?"

"Nah," you shrug, because she’ll beat it out of you if you don’t cooperate. “Just…uh…got out of a relationship."

"Did it end badly?" she asks, her voice taking on a gentle tack. She’s been around a time or two. She knows how to handle you. You shrug.

"More like it just…exploded," you shrug. “Got too attached. Asked him to stay when I knew he wouldn’t, not even for me. Got disappointed."

She refills your glass. “Tell me about him."

So you spend an afternoon rehashing your relationship with one J. Harley, a rugged old adventurer who couldn’t fight his wanderlust to save his life and had your heart from the get-go. You still miss him—which Jane says is good and natural but it just makes you want to die a little bit—and, well, when things go bad, you go where things have always been good for you. Nanna Crocker’s place is your little slice of heaven, always has been.

By evening, she’s cooking a delicious-smelling pot pie and making you laugh with stories of her latest “beau". She likes ‘em a little younger and you like ‘em a lot older, so sometimes you end up teasing each other about swapping lovers and acting your respective ages. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you ever pursued her. You wonder if she thinks about it, too. Then she pulls that stupid clown face of hers and you laugh so hard you forget.

You wash up the dishes and rub her feet while she watches Jeopardy and gets most of the answers wrong with a goofy smile on her face, and later on she guides your head to her shoulder and strokes your hair.

"I’m sorry it didn’t work out, honey," she says, and kisses your forehead. “What’s your plan now?"

You shrug. “Looking at a place in Texas."

"That’s a long way away," she says gravely. “Mighty expensive to visit."

She’s teasing, because you’re loaded and you both know it. You sit up a little and kiss her cheek, which has gotten softer with age. Still just as rosy.

"Maybe I’ll kidnap you," you say rebelliously. “Maybe I’ll run away with you down to Houston and keep you in my closet."

"I’ll tan your hide, kid, and you know it," she laughs.

"Is that a promise?" you purr, and she laughs harder, squeezing your shoulders, which she can barely get her arm around now. You watch her as she hiccups and settles back into the cushions, face relaxed, eyes half-closed. She’s tired. So are you.

"Would you come, though?" you ask quietly. “If I asked?"

She looks at you, a wistful little smile on her face.

"I’d come visit," she says. “I’d bring you stuff from the shop and mail you goodies. Maybe I’d even stay for a good long while."

"But you wouldn’t move with me," you sigh, and she shakes her head.

"I’m too old to uproot now. ‘sides, young thing like you, you don’t need a fogey like me hanging around."

You are very tired. Her blinks are slower and longer. You scoot a little closer and transfer your head to rest on top of hers.

"What if I want you to?" you murmur. “What if I want it more than anything?"

"I’ll make you a bet," she says sleepily. “If you get to Houston and don’t find someone to make you want them more, I’ll think about it."

You lace your fingers around her gnarled ones. She sighs a little.

You carry her up to her bed, because she’s past the age of sleeping on couches, and as you tuck her in she catches your arm.

"You’re a good kid, hun. You’ll find someone."

You kiss her forehead. “I love you, Jane."

She grins. “Love you too, Dirk."

You fall asleep on her couch and dream of a hot sunworn place without plates of cookies and velvety hands to card through your hair.


End file.
